


Forever Turning Corners

by DiscordantWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Community: holmestice, Grieving John Watson, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions, Story: Silver Blaze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: Exactly one year and four days after Sherlock Holmes flung himself from the top of Barts Hospital, John Watson buys himself a bottle of good scotch and a train ticket. The train ticket is an impulse, the scotch is not.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 51
Kudos: 396
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	Forever Turning Corners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Вечно сворачивая за угол](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25786165) by [Tenar30](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenar30/pseuds/Tenar30)



> Happy Holmestice!
> 
> This is for Iwantthatcoat, who mentioned enjoying post-Reichenbach fics, as well as updated ACD cases. I hope you enjoy!

*

Exactly one year and four days after Sherlock Holmes flung himself from the top of Barts Hospital, John Watson buys himself a good bottle of scotch and a train ticket. 

The train ticket is an impulse, the scotch is not. 

He has spent the last several days attempting to ignore the anniversary of the event. It is not something he wants to remember. He is not Sherlock, however, and he has never quite been able to master the knack of deleting unwanted information. 

And so he boards the train and sits against the window, his hand clenched into a fist against his leg. He watches the scenery fly by and pretends he does not mind the stranger sitting next to him. 

Three hours later he exits the train in Exeter. He has been sitting with his thoughts for too long. The shine of spontaneity has worn off and he regrets coming all this way. 

He hires a car anyway, because he is determined, now, to see this through. And because he cannot bear the thought of getting on a train back home, spending another several hours in the close company of a stranger. Not yet. He will need to work up to that. 

The landscape is as bleak and compelling as he remembered. 

He drives into Grimpen Village and thinks about the last time he was here, thinks about Sherlock, tall and aloof and untouchable with his cheekbones and his coat collar turned up. He thinks about _I don't have friends_ and he thinks about _I've just got one._

John stops just down the street from the Cross Keys Inn. He lets the car idle along the kerb. He cannot bring himself to turn off the ignition. 

He thinks about going inside, about seeing the innkeeper who had made a good-natured (but mistaken) assumption about him and Sherlock. He thinks about staying in the room they'd shared, the one with the two tiny creaking beds against opposite walls. He thinks about cracking open that bottle of scotch and drinking until the sun comes up. 

This is, after all, why he has come. The idea that had taken hold of him in the wee hours of the morning and compelled him onto a train bound for Devon. 

A memorial of sorts, four days too late. It would, he'd thought while purchasing the train ticket, feel like turning a corner. 

But he has been turning corners since Sherlock died. New flat—turning a corner. New job—turning a corner. The start of each promising but unfulfilling date—turning a corner. It has been nothing but corners. Somehow he keeps finding himself back where he started. 

He decides he would quite like to crack open the bottle. That much he can do. He does not think he can manage the rest of it. 

John drives on. 

The trip is less comfortable now that he lacks a destination. He has never been the aimless sort, he prefers decisive action. 

He imagines Sherlock next to him in the passenger seat, watching him with sharp eyes. He thinks that Sherlock would find this entire thing a bit stupid, a bit inexplicable, and the thought makes him smile. 

The sun is setting when he finds himself near Tavistock. 

He is tired, and hungry, and aching in a way that is not really physical, in a way that never seems to ease. He regrets leaving Grimpen Village and the Cross Keys Inn behind. He regrets having left London at all. 

He regrets a lot of things. 

There is nothing to do but press on. It is much too late for regrets after all, too late to return to Exeter and turn in the car, too late to catch a train back to London.

He finds an inn on the outskirts of Tavistock. It is a small, cosy building, if a bit run down. Warm light glows in the windows. When he steps out of the car the night air is clear and smells faintly of livestock. A dog barks from somewhere in the deepening shadows. He decides the inn will do. It is nothing at all like the Cross Keys. 

The woman who greets him is pleasant and efficient, and he takes to her immediately. 

"Lynn Straker," she says. She has a firm handshake and her cheeks are ruddy and wind burnt. She has a warm smile, and something in him thaws at the sight of it. "You can have your pick of rooms. We've only got one other guest tonight." 

"Oh," he says. He shrugs, at a loss. "I don't—anything is fine." 

"I'll give you one of the rooms facing east. It overlooks the paddocks. Pretty sight in the morning, with the sunrise." 

He recalls the livestock smell in the air when he stepped out of the car. "Paddocks?" 

"It's why you're here, innit? The horses?" 

His face must give him away, because she laughs, leans against the counter. It is a friendly laugh, deep and comfortable and not at all flirtatious. 

"There are plenty of inns in Tavistock," she says, looking him up and down. "Nicer places than this. The only reason anyone ever stays here is because of the horses." She seems to find his confusion amusing and winks at him. "The rooms overlook King's Pyland stables." 

"Oh," he says, because a response of some kind is clearly required. 

"The Wexell Cup is next week. We'll have more people trickling in when it gets closer to race day. Seems like everyone wants to get a good look at him." 

"Right," John says, and then frowns. "Sorry. Who?" 

"Silver Blaze," she says. 

"Right," he says again. "That would be the—er—horse." 

She laughs, smacks the countertop with the palm of her hand as if he's told a particularly good joke. "He's the favourite to take the cup. Undefeated in his last six races. You're really not here for the horses?" 

"No," he says. "Just getting away from London for a bit." 

"All right," she says easily. She rummages around under the counter, emerges with a room key. "You're welcome to join us for dinner in about an hour. My husband, Joe, should be back shortly. He's the head trainer over at King's Pyland." 

He does not feel much like dinner or conversation, but his stomach gives an interested rumble. 

"I could always bring a plate up to your room," she says, noticing his hesitation. 

"Oh," he says, wanting badly to accept her offer. He fears it would be terribly rude. "Erm—" 

"It's no trouble," she says, seeming to read his discomfort. "Our other guest—he's been here a few days now. I bring his meals every night, but otherwise we hardly ever see him. Strange fellow. But they often are, aren't they? Those writer types?" 

"Mm. Yeah, that—that would be good," he says. He offers a polite smile, not particularly wanting to be pulled into a conversation about her unusual lodger. "Thank you. It's just—I've had a long day." 

"Well, come on then. I'll show you your room." 

He follows her up the stairs and down a narrow hallway. The boards underfoot are uneven and creak as he walks. 

"Fitzroy's in that room there," she says, pointing to her left as they pass a firmly closed door.

He can only assume Fitzroy to be the mysterious guest. 

"He's a novelist," she says over her shoulder as she walks. "Fitzroy Simpson. Have you heard of him?" 

He considers. "No, I don't think so." 

"A mystery writer, he said." 

He shakes his head, gives her a bemused smile. 

"Oh, well. I've never heard of him either. He says his next book takes place at a racetrack, only he's never been around horses so he wanted to familiarise himself with all of this." 

"Seems reasonable," John says. 

"Up at the crack of dawn, out all day in the fields with his little notebook. Watching the horses run. Pacing his room at night. And the smoke!" she huffs, then turns back to face him. "But don't you worry, he keeps the window open. You shouldn't be bothered. Oh, here's your room." 

She pauses in front of a closed door, unlocks it, steps aside. 

The room inside is plainly furnished, but it has all of the necessities. John sets his small bag down on the floor next to the door. 

"Thank you," he says. "This will do." 

"I'll be by with your dinner in about an hour," she says. She presses the key into his palm, shuts the door behind her as she goes. 

John breathes out through his nose, stands surveying the little room. There is a single bed beneath a large window, a nightstand with a little lamp, and a squat bookcase against the wall. He eyes the titles, but does not see anything written by the elusive Fitzroy Simpson. 

There is a moment, a blessed moment, where he does not think about Sherlock. 

And then it crashes in on him anew, his reason for being here in this plain little room out on the moors. It has been a year and four days since Sherlock's death, and John is no closer to moving on than he was the day after it happened. 

"Turning a corner," he says, and delivers a sharp kick to the bookcase. It is heavier than it looks, and does not move. "Right. Great. Yeah. That's working out well." 

John picks up his bag, tosses it onto the bed. Sits down next to it. The springs creak. 

He digs the bottle out of the bag and opens it without any fanfare. He takes a sip, swallows, shuts his eyes against the burn. He takes a second, larger sip. 

He has been careful, so very careful not to squander the gifts that Sherlock has given him. He'd been alone, after all, terribly alone, and Sherlock had seen him, Sherlock had held out a hand and made him part of something _incredible._ He was alone, and he is no longer alone, not in the same way. He owes Sherlock a great deal. 

He has a flat in London. It is not Baker Street, but it is charming in its own way with its bright wallpaper and new furniture. He has steady work as a GP. Coworkers whose presence he enjoys, mostly. He does not turn down social invitations. 

He is not alone. And he should be _over this._

John takes another swallow. He sucks in a ragged breath that feels suspiciously like a sob. 

He thinks about Sherlock at the inn in Grimpen Village, trembling and sweating and spitting angry words by the fire. He thinks of the clumsy but earnest apology that followed after.

Christ, if he'd only known then how little time they had left. He'd have—he'd have—

Well. He doesn't know what he'd have done. But he'd have done something. 

There is a tap on the door and he jolts, almost drops the bottle. He hesitates, sets the bottle down on the ground out of sight, crosses the room to open the door. 

Lynn Straker stands in the hall, covered plate in hand. 

"Curried mutton," she tells him. "I hope that's all right." 

He assures her that it is, takes the plate. As she retreats down the hall he notices a similar plate on the floor in front of Fitzroy Simpson's closed door. 

He is curious in spite of himself. He never really could resist a mystery.

He lingers in the doorway, watching, but no one opens the door to retrieve the plate. After a moment, he sighs and steps back into his own room, shutting the door behind him. 

The room is quiet. This is good, this is what he wanted. Peace and quiet, a place to let his thoughts unspool, a place to let himself go and then pull himself back together. He does not want companionship or friendly conversation, not tonight. 

He does not particularly want curried mutton, either, but he _is_ quite hungry. He eats enough to quiet his rumbling stomach, sets the plate aside. 

He opens the window. A gentle breeze rustles the curtains, and though it carries the ever-present smell of livestock, he finds he does not mind. The night is cool, and quiet, nothing like the relentless energetic drone of Sherlock's London.

He cannot recall the last time he felt so alone. 

John reaches again for his bottle, looks at the amber liquid inside. He thinks about the way Sherlock's hand had trembled around his glass that night at the Cross Keys. He takes a sip, and thinks about the months he'd spent trailing in Sherlock's wake, thinks about the way Sherlock had seemed, to him, like a miracle personified. He takes another sip, and thinks about all of the things he'd never said, all of the words that had piled up in the back of his throat, all of the words he'd choked back. 

He shuts his eyes, breathes through his nose. His hand shakes. He is not normal, he thinks. He has run headlong into danger without fear, and he has feared things that others embrace with gusto. 

It is so very, very quiet.

He takes another sip, and wishes he'd told Sherlock, even just once, how much he'd loved him. It might have meant nothing, or it might have meant everything. He'll never know. 

*

John wakes to screaming. 

He is out of bed and into his jeans before he has even processed what he is hearing. He goes out into the hall, heart pounding. His head aches ferociously. He misses the comforting weight of his gun at his back.

He rushes down the narrow hallway, down the stairs, out the door. Gravel crunches under his feet as he turns, scanning the horizon, looking for the source of the sound. 

The first thing he spies is the barn, large and grey and weathered. It is closer than he expects. He had failed to notice it in the darkness the night before. There is a large, shaggy dog standing a few paces away, staring him down. He takes a step forward and it begins to bark. 

There is another scream and he turns away from the dog—though not entirely, he is reluctant to put his back to it—and this time his gaze lands on Lynn Straker, out in the fields in her nightdress. 

"He's hurt!" she cries. "Someone—please—" 

He goes across the field to meet her, catches her by the forearms. "Who's hurt? What's happened?" 

"Joe," she says. "My husband. He's—he's—" 

"I'm a doctor," he says, his voice calm, level. "I can help. Call an ambulance, yeah?" 

He sets out in the direction she has come from. 

He does not have to go far. There is a figure—Joe Straker, he assumes—sprawled face-down in the tall grass. Blood has flattened his hair, spread out in a wet dark halo around his head. 

John shuts his eyes, takes a steadying breath. Then he opens his eyes, crouches down. 

The man is dead. He has been dead for several hours, long enough for rigor mortis to set in. The back of his skull has been caved in by something frightfully heavy.

John sits back on his heels, looks around. There are hoof prints in the soft earth surrounding him. Perhaps not unusual, for a horse farm. He is not familiar enough with King's Pyland to say for sure. 

Something silvery glints in the morning sun. He reaches for it, then hesitates. It could be evidence. Instead of picking it up, he stoops low to examine it where it lies in the mud. 

A surgical scalpel. 

That's . . . strange. He can't think of any reason why it might be out there, trampled into the muddy ground. It is an unlikely but not impossible murder weapon, he supposes. The blade is sharp, but terribly small. And it certainly does not account for the man's caved in skull. 

He fears he is always to be defined by missing Sherlock, he misses him all the time, but he misses him most acutely in that moment, crouched there over a corpse in a windswept field. He sees pieces, but not the whole, never the whole. Sherlock could look at the scene in front of him and reveal all its secrets. 

There are voices coming from the direction of the barn. People, hurrying across the field towards him, raising the alarm. 

He stands up, knees creaking, and goes to meet them. 

*

He speaks with the police for nearly an hour. The DI who questions him is called Gregory, and the name brings an involuntary smile to John's lips. Another memory, another little piece of Sherlock. 

Joe Straker, he is told, returned home as expected after a long day working with the horses. He and his wife sat down for a meal of curried mutton (Joe's favourite). As was his custom, after finishing his meal, Joe took the leftovers out to the barn to share with the night watchman. He then returned home. 

He'd had complaints about the writer, Simpson. The man had been interfering, pushy, overstepping his bounds. He'd been quite welcome to walk the grounds and to observe the horses as they trained and exercised, but the barns and equipment storage were off limits. Straker and the night watchman had caught him skulking about the barn in the dark, disturbing the horses. 

He'd wanted the man gone, and had been quite adamant about it. Lynn Straker had gone to deliver the news, and had discovered his plate of curried mutton untouched outside his door. They'd opened up his room, but it was empty, his belongings gone. 

Straker had become agitated. He'd expressed concern for the safety of the horses, Silver Blaze in particular. He'd kissed his wife good night and had gone back out towards the barns, carrying a torch. This was not entirely unusual, she'd said. His nerves were often high in the weeks and days leading up to a big race. He was in the habit of spending occasional nights in the barn, keeping the night watchman and the horses company. 

But this time, he'd not returned. 

In the morning, upon awakening and discovering her husband was still not at home, Lynn Straker had gone out looking for him. She'd tried the barn first, and found the night watchman unconscious on the ground and Silver Blaze's stall empty. She'd then set out across the field, where she'd made the grim discovery of her husband's corpse. 

John can hear her weeping in the other room. Her grief is raw, palpable, terrible to behold. 

"We're looking for this Simpson fellow now," Gregory tells him. "It's looking more and more likely that he killed Straker and made off with the horse." 

John rubs at his chin, the morning bristles scratching against his palm. "But why?" 

"It's a valuable animal," Gregory says. "All that research Simpson was doing, for his 'book.' The perfect cover, really, when you think about it. He'd familiarised himself with the routines, and then made his move. Straker must have surprised him as he was leading the horse across the field." 

"Mm," John says. 

"You're sure you didn't hear anything last night?" 

He hadn't. The night had been deep and clear and quiet. 

"All right," Gregory says. "I'm going to ask that you stick around for a bit, in case we have more questions." 

John goes back to his room. He looks at the mostly empty bottle on the nightstand, at the window overlooking the fields that still hangs open. He has a good view of the barn, though it had been far too dark to see anything in the night. 

He sighs, scratches at his chin again. Gathers his clothes and a towel, goes to take a shower.

*

John's head feels better when he's emerged from the shower, though his stomach is tender and reminds him, none too gently, that he'd consumed a great deal of alcohol the night before. 

He needs to eat something. 

He creeps back down the stairs, not wishing to impose on Lynn Straker, who surely has graver things on her mind. 

The inn is silent, empty. He wonders if she has left to seek out family, or if she has gone with the police. 

He finds a half-empty bakery box of scones in the tiny kitchen, clearly left over from the day before. He eats two of them while standing over the box, not minding at all that they are stale. 

Feeling better, he steps back, considers his options. 

He cannot leave and return to London quite yet, though he doubts the police will need to speak to him again. The thought of returning to his quiet, empty room fills him with dread. Last night, he'd craved the silence. Now he wants something else. 

There is something that bothers him about DI Gregory's easy assumption that Fitzroy Simpson has murdered Straker and made off with the horse. He cannot quite wrap his head around _why._

He takes his phone out of his pocket, types out Simpson's name into the search engine.

It is as he expects. There is no known mystery writer currently published under that name. He supposes there's a chance the man was simply working on his first novel and had misrepresented himself in the hopes of gaining better access, but it seems far more likely that the name and the profession were both fabrications. Simpson had arrived at King's Pyland with the express purpose of getting close to the barns, to the horses, and to Silver Blaze in particular. 

John does not stop to consider next steps. He goes through the front door, back out into the warm morning sunshine. 

He follows the gravel path towards the barn. 

As he approaches, the shaggy grey dog he'd seen earlier emerges from the open doors. It growls at the sight of him, then begins to bark. 

He holds up his hands, slows his approach. "Easy, boy," he says. "I don't mean any harm." 

The dog backs off a few paces, still barking. John keeps his movements slow, unthreatening. Slips through the barn door into the cool dark interior. 

The dog does not follow him inside. Instead it sits down on its haunches just outside the door. It barks once more, a sharp, almost offended sound. 

Horses lift curious heads to greet him as he passes. The air is heavy with the odour of hay and sweat. 

There is an empty stall at the end of the long aisle, the door hanging conspicuously open. He stops in front of it, runs a finger over the nameplate that reads Silver Blaze. 

There is nothing to see in the stall. Straw bedding, a half-full water bucket. If the man who made off with the animal left any clues behind, John cannot discern them. 

He stands up reluctantly, scratches at the back of his neck. He had not expected to find anything of note, so he does not know why he feels vaguely disappointed. 

The horse in the next stall over stretches is head towards him, nickers softly. He turns to regard it. 

Outside the barn, the big grey dog starts barking again, the sound cacophonous. He does not know how anyone can stand it 

He determinedly tunes the dog out, looks at the horse. It is a tall beast, gleaming and majestic. It looks back at him with large brown eyes. 

John is not at all familiar with horses. He has no idea what might constitute a desirable trait. The animal in front of him seems sound and well cared for. 

The horse nudges its large head against his shoulder. He startles, then reaches a tentative hand up to stroke its neck.

"Wish you could tell me what happened here," he says. 

The horse tosses its head, snorts. John gives the animal a final pat and steps back. 

"That horse can't tell you anything, but the dog might," a voice drawls from behind him and John _jumps,_ his heart lurching because that voice, that voice sounded like—

He turns, fist clenching at his side. 

There is a man in a mud-spattered tweed jacket standing a few steps away. His hair is tucked haphazardly under a cap, his shoulders stooped. He's wearing corduroy trousers and an olive green jumper—the overall impression is a bit eccentric, professorial. 

The man lifts his head, squares off his rounded shoulders. He's got ill-fitting spectacles, the frames sliding down his nose. His mouth is pursed, giving the vague hint of bucked teeth. 

And it might be a trick of the light, or he might simply be losing his mind, but, no—that _voice_ , and the tentative smile pulling at the corner of the distorted mouth—

"Sherlock," John breathes. 

Sherlock spits something into his hand. It looks like a wad of cotton. He works his jaw, rubs his mouth with the back of his hand. He has the nerve to smile. 

"Hello, John," he says. 

John's vision blurs. He stumbles, his back hitting the stall door. He stares, and he listens to his own breath whistling in his nose, and at some point he realises he is sitting on the ground with his knees tucked up under his chin. 

"Jesus," he says. He puts his hand over his eyes. "Jesus." 

His vision swims again and then Sherlock is in front of him, that unusual-beloved-infuriating- _missed_ face is right there. His hands are on John's shoulders, his touch burning through the fabric of his shirt. He is speaking, the words muddled and indistinct. 

"What—" John gasps, and he thinks he means to ask _what are you doing here_ , but he does not want to ask that, not really. The explosion of shock and fierce joy is already fading, sinking under the weight of so monstrous a deception. So what he says instead is: "You faked your death." 

He is proud of himself for stating it so clearly. His voice very nearly does not shake at all. 

Sherlock frowns. He tucks his chin in a bit, his face hardening and softening at the same time. It is a peculiar expression. "Yes," he says. 

"You let me grieve," John says. "You let me—how could you _do_ that?" 

"It was necessary," Sherlock says. 

John wants very badly to hit him. He does not think he can get his legs under him. Instead he lets his head thump back against the stall door, stares up at the ceiling. 

"Necessary," he says, finally.

"Yes," Sherlock says, as if that settles it.

John shakes his head, his hair rasping against the uneven wood. "Fitzroy Simpson. That's you. That's—that's why you're dressed like . . . that." 

Sherlock looks down at his clothes, at the unlikely jacket and jumper, then back up at John. There is a furrow between his brows, deep and bewildered. His mouth does not seem to know whether to frown or smile. He smells very strongly of cigarettes. "Costume is only part of the disguise, but it's an important part." 

"The dog," John says, desperate for an anchor, for something to grasp hold of. The world seems to be spinning around him. "What did you mean, just now, about the dog?" 

"We'll get to that," Sherlock says. 

"No," John says, anger flaring. He staggers to his feet, pleased to see that his legs do support him after all. And then he is crashing into Sherlock, driving him backwards hard enough that his back hits the opposite wall. His cap slips off, revealing a familiar head of tousled curls.

One of the horses lets out a distressed neigh. The dog begins to bark again. 

"John—" Sherlock says, and is stopped by John's forearm against his windpipe. 

"Shut up," John says. He is trembling all over. He does not know if it is from rage or shock or some terrible combination. "Just—shut up. We won't. We won't _get to that._ I don't know what you think—what kind of game—what kind of _sick_ fucking game you think you're playing, but—but I won't play it. Not this time." 

He lets Sherlock go abruptly, steps back. Blood is roaring in his ears. He thinks he might be sick. 

"A man is dead," Sherlock says. His voice is hoarse, but his eyes are bright. 

"No, he's not," John spits back. "That's the problem." 

He turns and towards the barn door, towards the little square of sunlight beckoning him outside.

Footsteps behind him. 

"John!"

He keeps walking. Thinks about the way Sherlock looked, sprawled on the pavement with his blood leaking out of his shattered head. Thinks about all of the weeks and months that he's spent desperately trying to purge that memory from his thoughts. 

Sherlock hits him hard from behind, driving him face down into the ground. John shouts, and struggles, and then Sherlock's hand is clamped across his mouth. 

"Shut up," Sherlock hisses into his ear. "If you cause a scene, someone will see me. I'm not supposed to be here." 

"No, you're supposed to be on your way out of the country with a stolen horse," John grinds out against Sherlock's hand. He jerks his head out of Sherlock's grip. 

"Is that what they think happened?" Sherlock has the nerve to sound offended. "Idiots." 

John pushes up, and Sherlock rolls off of him without complaint. He stands, ignoring Sherlock's proffered hand. 

He should leave, he knows. He should turn around and leave _right now,_ because the kind of person who would do something like this is not the kind of person that John wants to know. No matter how much he has missed him. 

He is rewriting his own internal narrative, even as he brushes dirt and loose bits of straw from his clothes. Sherlock Holmes, the tragic figure, the most human human being and his best friend—that man is no more. He is replaced by Sherlock Holmes the liar, a man every bit the sociopath he'd always claimed to be. 

He is finally turning a corner. The thought makes him laugh. The laugh is not entirely sane. 

"John?" Sherlock does not look smug or haughty or even angry. He looks concerned. The expression is unfamiliar on his face, as alien as the ill-fitting clothes he wears. 

"Tell me about the dog," John says, because the barn door and the inn both seem too far away and he is too tired to care. 

"It barks," Sherlock says. 

John laughs again, looks up at the ceiling and then back at Sherlock. "No shit." 

"Walk with me, John," Sherlock says, and he turns around. He goes through the door without a second glance at the dog, who has resumed barking anew. 

John stands still, watches him go.

"Don't," he says, quietly, to himself. He clenches his fist at his side, releases it. He lets out a breath that feels like a sigh, because not following was never going to be an option. 

He follows. 

Sherlock has set off at a brisk pace into the fields. It is only a matter of moments before John catches up. They walk in silence for a time, the barn and the inn and the rambling main house falling away behind them. The sky, once bright with morning sun, slowly begins to darken with rolling clouds. John is terribly conscious of Sherlock—the little puffs of breath and sounds of exertion he makes, the scrape of his shoes against the uneven ground. More than once he spies Sherlock eyeing him, but he does not speak. 

Finally, John has had enough of the silence. "Why are we out here?" 

"Looking for a horse." 

He nods, as if that is a reasonable answer. "You think the horse has run off." 

"I'm certain of it." 

John blows a frustrated breath of air through his nose. 

"You're not convinced," Sherlock says. He stops walking, crouches down to examine the ground. 

"Trainer murdered, valuable racehorse missing—it can't just be a coincidence." 

"Why steal the horse?" 

John frowns, thinks about what DI Gregory told him. "It's a valuable animal." 

"Only with the proper papers," Sherlock says. 

"Surely there are people who might—" 

"This is a racehorse, John. His only value is on the track. You can't run a stolen horse in the Wexell Cup." 

John considers. "Then someone didn't want him to race."

Sherlock grins, a flash of teeth, and for a moment it is as if nothing between them has changed. "Now you're on the right track." 

"Oh, are we doing puns, now?" 

Sherlock looks at him, brows raised, mirth sparkling in his eyes. John can feel his own lips curling in a smile and looks away. His heart kicks in his chest. He wants to tackle Sherlock down into the windswept grass, wants to hit him and pummel him and drive him into the mud, wants to haul him up by the collar of that _ridiculous_ tweed jacket and kiss the blood from his lips and make him swear never to disappear again. 

"I have missed you," Sherlock says, his voice soft. 

John's smile fades. He looks away. 

They walk on. A breeze kicks up, surprisingly cool. Dark clouds have blotted out the sun. 

"Rain is going to make this significantly more difficult," Sherlock says. 

John looks at the ground, at the faint hoof prints in the soft dirt. Hums in acknowledgement. 

"We'll need to walk faster," Sherlock says, and picks up the pace. 

"Sherlock," John says. He huffs with exertion, hurrying to keep up. "The dog." 

"It didn't bark." 

"Sorry, what? That bloody thing has been barking all morning." 

"I know," Sherlock says, and he grins. 

"I'm going to need more than that to go on." 

"The dog is trained to raise an alarm when a stranger approaches the barn." 

"All right." 

"No alarm was raised last night." 

John stops walking, considers. He'd slept with the window wide open. He'd noted the deep, profound quiet, had found it restful. He does not believe he'd have slept through the big dog's incessant barking, not even while drunk. 

"What does that mean? Do you think the dog was drugged? The night watchman was dosed with something—the police suspect it was slipped into his dinner." 

"Ah, yes," Sherlock says. "The curried mutton." 

John grimaces, keeps walking. 

"Strong flavour," Sherlock says. 

"Yes," John agrees. "I know." 

"Easier to hide compounds in foods with strong flavours." 

John looks at him. "The police said you'd been spotted skulking around the barn. That's why Straker went out to check the horses." 

"Skulking? Did they really say that?" 

"Sherlock."

"Skulking." 

_"Sherlock."_

"I was following up a lead." 

"A lead." 

"Yes." 

And just like that, John wants to hit him again. It comes in waves, the urge. He tightens his fist and breathes and does not break. 

_I missed you,_ he thinks. _I fucking_ missed _you. And you've been off following leads, not a care in the world._

"There's a gambling ring that's got a bit too overzealous in their methods," Sherlock says, his voice pitched casually but his eyes never wavering from John's. "Not something I'd normally concern myself with, but it ties back to Moriarty and I do like to be thorough." 

John flinches at Moriarty's name. "He's dead." 

"His network lives on," Sherlock says. "Though it's smaller, now." 

"So this—all of this. It has to do with gambling." 

"Indirectly, yes." 

John nods, looks down at the ground as they crest a hill. It is easier to think about the horse than it is to think about Sherlock. Thinking about the horse does not hurt. "Someone didn't want that horse to run in the Wexell Cup. Someone on the inside, someone who works at King's Pyland. Someone the dog would not see as a threat." 

"Well done, John," Sherlock says, and he sounds pleased. "One small correction, however. I believe the perpetrator did indeed want Silver Blaze to run in the Wexell Cup. He simply did not intend for the horse to run _well._ " 

"He's the favourite," John says, considering. "Lynn Straker said he was undefeated in his last six races." 

"Precisely. And now we come to the expected conclusion," Sherlock says, and stops walking. 

Sprawling ahead of them is a network of paddocks and barns, all neatly kept. The fields are dotted with horses. 

"Mapleton Stables," Sherlock says, gesturing. "The police have already been by." 

"If they've already been by, then what are we doing here?" 

Sherlock smiles again, tucks in his chin. The expression is familiar, and endearing, and John _hates_ it, he hates the normalcy of it, he hates how much he's missed that stupid fucking face, and he just—

"Mapleton Stables also has a horse, a very fine horse that they've entered into the Wexell Cup." 

"All right," John says.

"Their horse is currently running at very long odds. If he were to win, anyone betting on him would stand to make a small fortune." 

"But if Silver Blaze were scratched from the race, the odds would change," John says. "That doesn't explain why he's still missing." 

"The evidence suggests that he's here." 

"Evidence," John says. He scoffs, looks around, gestures to the wild moors and the dark roiling sky. "What evidence?" 

"He is not at King's Pyland." 

"That's not evidence." 

"Outright theft is irrational and if someone had wished to kill him they'd have done so without bothering to take him out of the stable. No, he's got loose somehow. There'd be little incentive for him to stay out on the moor, so if he hasn't returned to King's Pyland then he must be here." 

John nods slowly. He studies Sherlock as surreptitiously as he can, but he is almost certain the other man is aware of it. There is very little that escapes Sherlock's attention. 

"I've spent a few days familiarising myself with the King's Pyland and Mapleton grounds." 

John thinks of Sherlock in all of that tweed and corduroy, mouth stuffed with cotton to change the shape of his face. It seems surreal, like a fever dream. For a moment he wonders if he is still lying drunk in his bed back at the inn. 

"Sorry, but—" John says, and then hesitates. He shakes his head. " _Fitzroy?_ "

"It needed to be something inconspicuous." 

"That's inconspicuous?" 

"Shut up." 

John smiles in spite of himself. 

"I observed Straker delivering curried mutton to the night watchman. He made something of a habit of that, bringing dinner to the barn. The man would have suspected nothing amiss," Sherlock says.

"So you. You saw it." 

Sherlock tilts his head, studies him. "Straker spent a few moments with the watchman, presumably discussing me. Terrible at his job, by the way, he'd chased me off from the barn less than an hour prior to all that, but never checked to make sure I hadn't got back in. Straker mentioned wishing to evict me from the inn and returned to the house. While he was gone, the night watchman consumed nearly the entire meal, then slumped over out of his chair. I made sure he was still breathing, then I sat back to observe." 

"Straker came back and took the horse," John says. It is not a question. 

"Yes," Sherlock says. "The dog went with him."

"You didn't follow?" 

"There were—papers. Straker maintained a small office in the barn. I wanted to have a look at them, and the night watchman was, most fortunately, incapacitated. Straker was of little consequence at that point." 

John frowns. "You'd just witnessed him committing a crime." 

Sherlock shrugs, looking slightly discomfited. "Straker was only one piece of the puzzle. I only intended to observe, to look for other connections to larger organisations that I might have missed. He had mistresses, of course, and he was up to his neck in gambling debt, but a few fixed horseraces weren't going to threaten the safety of the commonwealth." 

John thinks of Lynn Straker, with her kindly, chatty demeanor. He is suddenly terribly sad for her. 

"Since when do you care about the safety of the commonwealth?" John asks.

Sherlock looks at him. His eyes are very pale in the shifting shadows of the oncoming storm. "There are certain things that I have—come to care about." 

John scoffs, looks away.

Sherlock is silent for a long moment. When he speaks it is in a slow, careful voice, devoid of inflection. "You believe me incapable." 

John smiles. It is not a happy smile. "A year ago, I'd have thrown a punch at anyone who dared suggest that." 

"And now?" 

"The evidence speaks for itself." 

"I—" Sherlock pauses, clears his throat. His fingers find the edge of his jacket and tug at it. "I am not often given to flights of fancy. But. Being here, it—"

John looks at him. Waits. 

Sherlock's gaze does not waver from his face. 

"This is the closest I've been to home in the past year. I came here—I chose this place over several others where there were, perhaps, more urgent matters to pursue. I chose it, John, because it was remarkably easy to imagine that, upon conclusion of the investigation, that I might simply catch the next train back to Paddington Station. Return home to Baker Street. Interrupt you in the midst of—whatever it is you do to amuse yourself when I'm not there." Sherlock stops. A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Foolish, perhaps. But—" 

"Baker Street," John says. The words fill him with a sick sense of longing. "I'm not there anymore." 

"What?"

"I don't live there anymore."

Sherlock frowns. "Why not? I doubt you'd be able to find more reasonable accommodations in central London—" 

"Had to. You know. Move on. Get on with my life." 

"What life? I've been away." 

John smiles again, a painful, hurt thing. "Yeah, that's the problem. And that's enough. I've had enough." 

"The horse," Sherlock says, a tinge of desperation in his voice. 

A fat raindrop strikes John's forehead, rolls down to the tip of his nose. 

Sherlock begins walking down the hill towards Mapleton. John stares after him and then, cursing himself, follows. 

"You haven't asked who killed Straker," Sherlock says, his tone cautious. 

"Do you know?" 

"I suspect. I'll know more once we find the horse." 

"You've seen the body," John says. 

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "I came upon it nearly an hour before Lynn Straker emerged from the inn. An interesting scene." 

John looks down at the ground. He does not know Lynn Straker well, but he thinks he'd have liked to spare her the sight of her husband's corpse. 

"You saw the blade, I presume?" Sherlock asks. 

John lifts his head, looks at him. He nods, a short, sharp motion. He does not ask for clarification, and Sherlock does not offer. 

They reach the Mapleton property, duck under a pristine white fence. Sherlock ignores the main barn and instead leads them around the side to a small secondary building where a stout, shaggy pony stands munching on hay. 

Lightning arcs through the sky as it begins raining in earnest. The little barn is dark, and humid, and smells of horse. 

The pony follows them. It seems friendly, butting its head against John's arm. He gives it a gentle pat on the neck. 

"Ah," Sherlock says. 

John follows his gaze. There is a horse tied to a post near the back, barely discernible in the shadows. It is a sleek coal black, tall and majestic. It snorts and rolls its eyes nervously as the storm picks up in intensity. It seems terribly out of place in this small stable, seems like it should be housed somewhere more luxurious.

"It's—er—beautiful," John says. "But Silver Blaze has. Um. A blaze. This horse doesn't." 

"Doesn't he?" Sherlock smiles, the pleased incandescent smile that only comes when he's been proven right. He approaches the horse cautiously, hand out, strokes the creature's velvety muzzle. Then he dips his fingers in the water bucket, rubs his damp hand across the animal's forehead. 

"Christ," John says, as the silvery hairs are revealed. "How did you know?" 

"Lucky guess," Sherlock says. 

John closes his eyes, sighs. 

"We've also found the murderer, if you're still interested," Sherlock says.

John opens his eyes. Frowns. 

Sherlock inclines his head towards the horse. 

"The horse," John says. "You're kidding." 

Sherlock shakes his head. A lightning flash lights up the barn, briefly making him look ghost pale and washed out. Haunted. 

He run his hand down the horse's neck, pauses when the animal lets out a snort of distress and moves away. 

"There's a scab, just here," Sherlock says. "A small cut. Made by a fine blade." 

"A scalpel," John says, thinking of the little silver blade he'd found out in the field. 

"Mm," Sherlock agrees. "I believe we can label this case self-defense instead of murder." 

"What are you talking about?" 

Sherlock strokes the animal's neck again, careful this time to avoid the nick. "Gambling debt. Straker almost certainly saw an opportunity to get clear of it. He bet against his own horse, and then set out to ensure that the race had the desired outcome. Stealing Silver Blaze was never the plan." 

John stares, feeling a growing sense of horror. "He—" 

"He led the animal out onto the moor. He most likely intended to make a small cut to one of its legs. Nothing that would cause permanent damage—though horses are fragile, and he'd have no way of ensuring the outcome would be favourable. Still, he doubtless thought it worth the risk. People do that, you know. Risk things, even precious things." 

John does not have it in him to respond to that. He focuses on the horse, on the case, because that he knows how to do, there is a rhythm to that, a comfortable give-and-take that he's had disturbingly little trouble falling back into. "He was going to keep Silver Blaze in the Wexell Cup. He was going to run him lame." 

"Exactly." Sherlock says. "But something in his demeanor must have spooked the horse. Good boy," he strokes the horse's nose. "When they examine the corpse, I'm sure they'll find that the injury to Straker's skull was caused by a kick to the head."

John smiles tightly, looks down at the ground. "His wife. The innkeeper. I'm sorry for her." 

Sherlock blinks. "Why?" 

He lifts his head, meets Sherlock's gaze. Holds it, even and steady. "She's lost her husband. She's grieving, and now she's—well, now she's got to come to terms with the fact that he wasn't the person she thought she knew at all." 

Sherlock flinches. It is not as satisfactory a response as John had hoped. 

"None of this," John says. "None of what you've said explains why the horse is here. Why he's locked up in this tiny little barn with dye on his face." 

"Ah," Sherlock says, and looks towards the window, where a rain-soaked child peers through the glass with wide and frightened eyes. "I believe we're about to find out." 

*

The child vows complete honesty in exchange for Sherlock's word that her parents will not be told. Sherlock seems all too happy to take that deal.

She'd found the horse wandering on the moor in the early hours of the morning, and had managed to lure him home. She'd recognised him immediately, and had hatched a scheme to keep him hidden away until after the Wexell Cup, giving her father's horse a better shot at taking the race. 

"I'd have set him loose after," she tells them, wide-eyed and earnest. "Back out where I found him, so he could find his way home. I didn't want to hurt him. I just wanted to help." 

After she has fled back towards the main house, John stands with Sherlock in the cramped little barn, listening to the rain batter the roof. 

"She knew the police would come, and so she dyed his face," Sherlock muses. "Clever, really. Her father was quite adamant when he spoke to the police that Silver Blaze was not on the property. Which, as far as he knew, was true."

John hears the admiration. Sherlock has always appreciated a good trick. 

The rain patters on the roof. John wants to put his arms around Sherlock, and he loathes himself for it. 

"What now?" he asks, his voice flat. 

Sherlock looks at him, as if surprised to hear him speak at all. "Now you take Silver Blaze back to King's Pyland. Tell everyone you found him roaming the moors. You'll be the hero of the hour." 

"And where—" John stops, swallows. "Where will you be going?" 

"I've got some loose ends to tie up in Eastern Europe," Sherlock says. He looks tired, John thinks, but it must just be a trick of the light.

"So that's it?" 

Sherlock tilts his head. "That's what?" 

"You just—you just leave. Again. You just fuck off for parts unknown. And I just—I just—" he falters, his voice breaking. 

And then his hands are grasping at the lapels of Sherlock's stupid jacket, and he's hauling him in close, kissing him against the wall of the barn. And his fingers are in Sherlock's hair and they are skating down the sides of Sherlock's face and they are teasing up under the hem of Sherlock's hideous green jumper. The flat of his hand slides up Sherlock's bare skin, dancing over ribs, coming to rest over his frantic beating heart. His hands are cold. Sherlock's skin is warm.

He thinks he might be sick with it, this terrible muddle of anger and want. He has wanted for so very long. 

Sherlock is not pulling away, Sherlock kissing him back, his motions sweet and tentative and John does not want sweet, John wants to rip his trousers down and bite and suck and _hurt,_ John is aching and burning and imploding and Sherlock's soft hand cupping the back of his neck is gentle and steady and so terribly, terribly wrong. 

He wrenches himself backwards. Sherlock stares at him with shocked eyes, swollen lips. 

"Were you ever coming back?" John asks. "If I hadn't—if we hadn't run into each other here. Would you have come back?" 

"I hoped," Sherlock says. "One never can know for certain." 

"Right," John says, and he thinks again about blood on the pavement, about Sherlock's hair heavy and wet with it. He thinks about that limp cold hand, he thinks about the pulse he'd sought in vain. He thinks about all of the sleepless nights that came after, all of the guilt, all of the sorrow.

"John—" Sherlock says, his voice tentative.

John holds up his hand, shakes his head. He turns away, looks at the wall. Strikes out with his fist once, twice, his knuckles scraping raw against the rough wood. Then he bends over, puts his head in his hands. 

"John," Sherlock says again. He is close, uncomfortably so, his hand on John's shoulder. 

His hand is on John's shoulder, and now John knows what he tastes like, and he knows the soft sounds he makes when he's kissed, and oh, Christ, John has missed him. 

John shakes him off, roughly. 

"The rain's let up," he says. Through the window, the sky has begun to lighten. "I'm taking this horse back to King's Pyland." 

Sherlock still looks shocked, somehow, his eyes wide and a little frantic. "John, wait—" 

"You have somewhere to be, yeah?" John smiles without any warmth. "You should go." 

*

After he's been interviewed by the police and thanked profusely by seemingly everyone that he encounters on the massive grounds of King's Pyland stables, John retreats to his room at the inn. It is late, and he is tired. One more night in the tiny little room with its plain but comfortable furnishings will do him just fine. 

He is grateful that Lynn Straker does not appear to have returned. He does not want to be present when she learns the truth.

He showers, brushes his teeth. Stares at his reflection in the mirror and tells himself that Sherlock Holmes is alive. It does not quite feel real. The memories are surreal, insubstantial, swept away by the winds on the moors. 

The scraped skin on his knuckles is real, and it stings when he puts his hands under hot water. 

Just last night, he thinks, he sat in this very room and toasted Sherlock's memory. He'd had plans for this impromptu trip. Something about turning a corner. It seems laughable now.

He pushes the thought aside, climbs into the little bed. He opens the window and lets the night air rush in, rain-damp and sweet-smelling. 

Outside, the dog begins to bark. And bark. And bark. 

John sits up.

There is a creak in the hallway, just outside his door. John sighs, runs a hand across his face. 

"Come in, then," he says. He ought to be angry, he thinks. But he isn't. He's relieved. 

The door swings open. Sherlock is briefly silhouetted by the hallway light. 

"Thought you'd gone," John says, finally. 

Sherlock shuts the door, turns to look at him. John can hear him breathing in the dark. 

"I—" Sherlock says, finally. He stops. Swallows.

John folds his arms over his chest, waits.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asks, finally. 

John shrugs. "I wanted to get out of London for a bit." 

"You've never expressed any particular interest in Devon." 

"Yes, well," John shakes his head, helpless. "Things change." 

Sherlock makes a frustrated sound. 

"Fine," John says. He breathes out through his nose, looks up at the ceiling. "I came out here as a memorial of sorts." 

"A memorial. A memorial . . . for me?" 

John nods. His mouth feels dry. 

"Why here?" Sherlock asks. 

"I didn't intend for it to be here. I'd wanted—" he catches sight of Sherlock's face in the shifting shadows and falters briefly. "I'd planned to go to Grimpen Village. Stay at the Cross Keys." 

"I see," Sherlock says, in a tone that implies anything but. 

"It was too—" John shrugs again. "It was too much. I couldn't. So I kept driving. Stopped when I got tired." 

Sherlock draws a shaky breath. John thinks he may never tire of it, this simple miracle of hearing a dead man breathe. 

"Grimpen Village," Sherlock says, and his voice sounds steadier now, more sure. "Why Grimpen Village? We'd only been the one time, and the entire experience was dreadful." 

John swallows. He thinks it might be easier to be truthful now, here in the dark. It does not quite feel real. When he speaks, his voice is carefully flat. "We weren't lovers. We never went on holiday together. I—that trip was all we had."

"We were both dosed with a fear-inducing hallucinogen." 

"Yes," John says. "I do remember." 

" _Why_ would you want to remember that?"

John smiles. It is not a happy smile. He looks down at his hands, folded in his lap across the blanket. "I wanted to remember _you._ " 

Sherlock blinks. And blinks again. And blinks and blinks and blinks. He does not respond. 

John shifts uncomfortably on the narrow bed.

Sherlock stops blinking. Draws a breath. Goes back to blinking. 

"Sherlock," John says, finally. 

"I—" Sherlock says, "—may have miscalculated." 

John shuts his eyes, pinches his brow with his thumb and forefinger. He does not want to think of Sherlock on the ground, does not want to think of the blood and the crowd and the helpless thundering of his own heart. 

"Just," John says. He breathes out, hard, through his nose. Lets his hand drop away from his face. He ought to be standing for this, he thinks. This is not the kind of conversation one has while sitting in bed. But he is tired, bone tired, and he cannot bear the thought of moving. "Just. Come here. Please. Sit down." 

Sherlock hesitates, then slips out of his coat. He takes two steps forward, hesitates again, sits on the edge of the bed. 

"It doesn't make sense," Sherlock says, finally. 

"What doesn't?" 

"The actual anniversary was five days ago," Sherlock looks unsettled. There is a crease between his furrowed brows. "If you. Um. Intended to . . . memorialise the event in some way. Why not then?" 

John smiles. It is not a happy smile. He looks down. "Couldn't." 

Sherlock says nothing. His fingers skim along the duvet, restless. 

"It's been—difficult for me," John says. "To acknowledge that you're gone." 

"John," Sherlock says. "I realise that you have little cause to trust me. But I—I had a very good reason to do what I did. I swear to you." 

"I know." 

"You . . . know?" 

John shrugs. Sighs. He does not know, not really, but he knows Sherlock. And he supposes that will have to be enough. "I'm glad you're not dead." 

"Oh. Good." 

"It was good of you, finding that horse," John says. "You didn't have to look for him. It wouldn't have changed anything for you." 

Sherlock shrugs, says nothing. In the darkness, the pallor of his skin is unmistakable, as are the dark hollows beneath his eyes. He has not been living comfortably. 

John touches his hand. Sherlock startles a bit, but does not move away. 

"When was the last time you've slept?" 

"Sleep is boring," Sherlock says, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face. 

John smiles back. He cannot help it. He is furious and aching and he is certain that he will find new cause for despair in the morning. But Sherlock Holmes is alive, and pressed up next to him, and that is the sum total of all he has has wanted for the last long, terrible year. 

Sherlock kisses him. It is a clumsy kiss, gentle and sweetly tentative. 

John puts his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, pulls him close. He no longer wants to hurt him. He just wants to feel his heart beating, feel the warmth of his skin. They slide down together onto the bed, the aged springs creaking. 

"I loved you, you know," John says softly as he draws back. 

"Past tense?" Sherlock asks. His voice is carefully neutral, but John hears the question. 

John stills, considers. He thinks about Sherlock's hands, gentle on the horse. Thinks about the careful way he'd coaxed the truth out of the frightened child. Thinks about his kisses, tentative and clumsy and achingly sweet. He thinks of Sherlock in the barn, standing behind him with a cap on his head and cotton in his mouth. Thinks of the strange twist of fate that had brought them both together here, in this place. Sherlock's investigation had died with Straker. He had not needed to linger. He had not needed to reveal himself to John. But he had. He'd chosen to. 

"No," John says, after a moment. He does not quite know what to do with his own admission. He is grateful for the dark. 

"Good," Sherlock says. "That's. That's good." 

It is good, he thinks. Or perhaps it isn't. It's hard to say, now, lying in the dark with Sherlock's heart beating steadily under his hand. He is not sure how he will feel in the morning, in the cold light of day. But for now he is content, and that is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to [thetimemoves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOut/pseuds/thetimemoves/works?fandom_id=133185) for the cheerleading and support!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover | Forever Turning Corners](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28775508) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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